


A Helpful Assistant

by cyranothe2nd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Breathplay, Dominance, F/M, Femdom, Humiliation, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-04
Updated: 2010-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:57:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyranothe2nd/pseuds/cyranothe2nd





	A Helpful Assistant

**Title** : A Helpful Assistant  
 **Rating** : NC-17  
 **Pairing** : Mycroft/Anthea  
 **Warnings** : D/s, top!Anthea/bottom!Mycroft, choking/breathplay, slight humiliation, bondage  
 **Disclaimer** : I do not own these characters.  
 **A/N:** Unbetaed. All mistakes are my own.

 **Written in response to[this](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4777.html?thread=12758953#t12758953)  prompt on the** kinkmeme for[](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[ **sherlockbbc_fic**](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/) 

    I take a few steps back, surveying my handiwork. Mycroft is lying spread-eagled in the exact center of the bed, nestled in the sheets like a length of carved ivory against black silk. His suit jacket is open and the shirt underneath is pulled out and unbuttoned. His trousers and pants are still hooked around one ankle, dangling off the side of the bed like a lolling tongue. He likes contradictions like this—black and white, precision and messiness, power and submission--as do I. Mycroft’s frame looks soft, dressed as he usually is in swaths of wool and non-primary browns and greys. He thinks it makes him look more approachable, less otherworldly than his brilliant git of a brother. That is true, but also not true. Much like the man himself, the clothes are a contradiction, a disguise for the power beneath. But the power is also a contradiction, held in tension with this thing that he craves like air, this thing that no one else knows and no one else has ever given him. That knowledge hums through my brain and makes my skin tingle.

     Mycroft’s eyes are closed but he feels my regard and arches up, his pale skin shining with sweat against the black sheets. It amazes me how unabashed he is, how very free he will allow himself to be when he is usually so priggish. Yet another contradiction, and one that I want to explore over and over.

     I drop my voice into a low drawl as I say, “Look at you, all laid out for me like a slag.”

    “Not a slag,” he contradicts, his toff voice trembling only a little. I can feel my smile slide into something feral at this rebellion.

    “Yeah,” I say, drawing out the penultimate vowel as I drag my fingernails down his sides. The Manchester is coming out in my voice now, the bright London consonants turning lazy and low, almost guttural. I usually try so hard to hide this, detesting the working-class way of speaking nearly as much as I detest the feel of cheap ploy blends against my skin. I’m wearing cashmere just now; a Christmas gift from Mycroft and the feel of it is like a caress. Mycroft loves my voice like this, though, gasps as he hears it, breath shivering out of his thin chest.

    “You are a slag, aren't you, luv?” He whimpers, his body rising to meet my hands, demanding more contact, but I withdraw. He moans and stutters out, “N-no. I'm not.”

    My hand shoots out and grips him by the throat, applying pressure. He gasps, feeling the bite of my varnished fingernails, knowing that I could cut off his air at any moment. “You are. Say it. Say, 'I am a slag.'”.

    His breath is coming even faster now, cheeks flushed with arousal. “No,” he gasps out and I squeeze a little bit in response, enough to let him know I mean business.

    “Say. It.” I repeat, my voice dropping to a deadly calm. Mycroft loves me like this—when I drop out of the franticness of daily life and into the stillness of him. Contradictions, again because, while he is outwardly still, I know that this is one of the few times where his prodigious brain is finally silent. There is nothing that he would not allow me to do to him in this moment and nothing at all I wouldn’t do, because I love him and because I _can_. He knows and I know that this is an expression of the raw power of sex but it's tempered into something forged like iron-- many separate burnings into strength. But it’s also a reflection of how far I’ll go to stop that racing mind of his and how far he will allow me to go to do it.

     I am reminded of the first time we did this, of the breathless anticipation, the feeling of someone finally understanding, the complete acceptance that was both terrifying and exhilarating. The fact that he was my boss was so clichéd that I kept laughing against his neck, breathing in clean sweat and balsam aftershave. He laughed too, warm and rich and real. The amusement faded and urgency took its place and I was holding him down by the shoulders, biting and pinching at his nipples, taking him inside of me and rolling my hips in a broken rhythm. It felt like flying and drowning and later he told me, in that oh-so-proper way of his, that he’d hoped that taking on an assistant would be a help rather than a hindrance and he was never so glad to be right.

    My grip tightens on his throat and he cannot breath. Mycroft’s eyes fly open but he does not fight. He knows not to fight, not to panic. I hold his very life in my hand and he doesn't shrink from it, from me. Instead he strains towards me, as close as the bonds allow, pressing his white throat more deeply into my hand. Blood rushes in my ears and I count out the seconds: five, ten, twelve. I release him at fifteen and he gasps in a ragged breath. I can see his capitulation in the lines of lines of his body but still my heart thrills when he whispers, “ _Please!_ ”

    I hitch up my skirt, not bothering to remove my knickers, just shoving them aside and I sink down onto his cock. He groans, drowning out my own hiss because he feels so right, so goddamn beautiful that I could scream. I move, snapping my hips forward hard and noting with amusement that his hands are straining against the ropes. Mycroft likes to touch and the fact that he’s being denied is unbearably arousing. This is not going to last long but I was serious before and I still want to hear him say the words. I lean over and lave his neck with my tongue and then crash my lips against him. He kisses back and I can feel his gratitude for the contact in the way his tongue curls around mine, even as his hips rise off the bed to meet me. I trail my fingers down his chest, finding his nipples, already pebble-hard and sensitive. I pinch them both, rolling the nubs between thumb and forefinger. Mycroft tears his mouth away from mine and groans loudly and he’s suddenly speaking, the words spilling out of him.

    “I’m a slag, yes, Christ! Please, please I want to feel you come. I’ll do anything, please please let me feel you! God, you’re so good, everything is so fucking good and I need to feel you, _please_!”

    His low, pleading voice sends me over the edge and I am flying. I feel him shudder against me and the flood of wetness and I force my eyes open, riding out my own orgasm, to watch him. His face crumples in on itself, almost pained, before smoothing into blissed out slackness. His pale blue eyes look almost drugged. I smile a bit at that, feeling pleased that it’s me that has stripped him of composure, if only for a few minutes. I take my time untying the rope that binds him, kissing his ankles and wrists where the rope has left a mark. He won’t like that later, but just now he is too boneless to care. I strip my skirt and hose and lay beside him. He slides a cool hand under the thin blue sweater he bought me and I wonder suddenly if it’s like this with the other, not-so-pleasant Mr. Holmes and if John Watson is able to strip the thoughts out of Sherlock’s head, if he’s unlocked the secret to it. Judging from the vast amounts of tension between them, I’d guess not.  
“My dear,” Mycroft huffs against the back of my neck, “If you don’t stop thinking of my brother while in bed with me, I shall kick you out.”  
I turn and press a fond kiss against his rather jowly cheek. His hand slides to the small of my back and rests there. I can feel him drooping towards sleep and know I should get up and urge him out of his suit jacket at least, but sleep comes so rarely to Mycroft that I don’t move. His breath evens out and I snuggle in closer, breathing in the scent of him, salt and sex and aftershave. I think of the strange route my life has taken and the things I do for love of this unprepossessing, seemingly benign, utterly brilliant man. I drop off, somewhere between _pick up his dry cleaning_ and _fuck him into a coma_.


End file.
